


The Wall

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Humpty Dumpty (Nursery Rhyme), Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, One Tiny Sex Reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23249599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Malcolm Bright is Humpty Dumpty. For reals. The ultimate crossover because reasons. With Gil and JT there to help him.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	The Wall

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Humpty Dumpty](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/570049) by Nursery Rhyme. 



Malcolm Bright sat on a wall. A brick wall, four feet high on his side. _Keep Off the Wall_ looked back at him from the L further down. At his back, a twenty foot drop to the street.

A paper bowl of sherbet in his hands. Raspberry and lemon swirled together, eating around the pink until it melted and became a drink to savor the sweetness instead of the texture or taste.

The art museum welcomed him whenever he ventured in. He wandered through the featured exhibit, sometimes going back to favorites. Finished in the cafeteria with a cup of coffee or a bowl of sherbet. And headed out to the patio, sitting where other patrons heeded the sign.

In the shade, a wanted respite later in the day when the sun was still determined to sizzle everything in sight. A lens over the Earth, they were all ants vaporizing on the surface. "It's summer, Bright - lose the jacket," Dani had encouraged.

“You’re makin’ me hot,” JT had complained.

But it wasn't that easy. It brought comfort. A uniform of the same daily actions, buttoning up his stresses under a fitted suit jacket. He sweated like hell outside, but it held him together.

On a wall, thinking of how lucky he was to have friends to banter with. They knew he wouldn’t change, but they liked to josh each other anyway. The biggest hug he couldn’t give.

If Gil pressed him, Malcolm would call it a freak accident. A food cart out of control that hit his legs.

But Gil would stare him down again. Complain “I’m not playing games, Bright.” And get him to admit that _maybe_ , the hit was on purpose.

A shove to loosen his grip on the brick. To send his center of gravity backwards, tipping dangerously toward the other side. He’d tried to catch himself, but his hands were too busy with the icy treat, so he teetered. Looking at the sky, the sun flaring bright as he fell toward the street. Gaping at the ground, his feet coming under him and slipping away. A great distance some didn’t survive.

Malcolm Bright laid on the walk. Half on a wacky, waving, inflatable, arm flailing, tube man. Half on the concrete. On the line from ass to chin. He didn’t think he was quite the clientele the restaurant was trying to draw in with the flying chef, but he supposed one didn’t get to choose where they landed when pushed off a wall.

His ass ached worse than a rough fuck. His ankles bent in wayward directions, not even close to passable as straight. His shoulders and neck complained of pressure that traveled up into his head. So, not dead.

He wanted to sit up, but knew, for once, he needed to stay still. He reached inside his jacket pocket for his phone, finding it curled up next to his chest, unharmed. _Make these stronger than me_ , he laughed, immediately regretting the action as his ribs protested.

He was alive, but how many bones did he have? Surely not 206. 207? 210? All the signals to his brain felt more like 220. Electricity shot through him, trying to explain one pain had greater urgency than another, but arced to one big _owww_ he couldn’t turn off.

Help, he needed help. He called Gil and rested the phone on his chest on speaker. “I took a fall,” his words came out with effort between breaths.

“Bright? Where are you?” Gil’s concern hastened out.

“Museum. Ground level. Flat on the ground level. Next to a restaurant. The Italian one, I think? They’re the ones. With the wacky, wailing - “

“Bright,” Gil cut him off. Malcolm was just a few blocks over from where Gil and JT were still finishing up at the precinct. Gil scribbled on paper, and JT followed his instructions. “JT’s getting a bus. You’re gonna stay on the line with me.”

“You gotta drive,” Malcolm disagreed.

They were already out in the parking lot, and Gil put the phone on speaker when they got in the car. “Our friend is gonna drive.”

“JT! Buddy!”

“Hey, small fry.” JT pulled into the street. “You take a detour home?”

“I like it here.” Further away, legs passed by him. Feet marching to a preprogrammed end. Couldn’t anyone see him? He’s served up on a gigantic piece of polyester, the black pant legs still waving up from the fans, but he’s invisible. Unbelievable.

“Hurt, and you like it. Why am I not surprised?”

“Don’t make me laugh.” Malcolm coughed, holding his ribs. His jacket was tight on one button, but maybe it needed to be tighter.

“So no _do you need an escort to get home safe_ jokes either. Got it.”

Malcolm struggled to take in enough breath. “Bright, what did you hit?” Gil asked.

“A wacky, wailing - “

“Bright!”

“Things.”

JT’s car pulled up - they beat the ambulance, yet Malcolm could hear it up the street. They hopped out of the car and jogged to Malcolm’s side. Gil’s growing eyes said, _that’s a drop_.

“Twenty feet,” Malcolm provided.

“Fifteen. Further, and there might be more Bright bits,” JT scoffed, scanning over him for injuries.

“Car was softer. I think I broke my ass.” Malcolm cracked a hint of a smile. Everything was hidden under his suit.

“Among other things?” JT looked at his ankles.

Malcolm would have shrugged if he could’ve. The ambulance arrived and things got a whole hell of a lot noisier with requests and questions about pain. People he didn’t know, in his face, while his friends stayed beside him, Gil squeezing his hand.

Gil and JT couldn’t hold Malcolm together as the paramedics shifted him onto a backboard. Any movement brought shocks of agony through his body, screaming out his mouth. They got separated, the ambulance carrying him away to the hospital, the men following behind it.

* * *

Unlike the king’s men, they had modern medicine. One with some pins to hold the pieces in his hip, shoulder, and ankles, his knees sequestered in braces. One with arms to hold the other while reluctantly needing to stay in bed. And one with jokes to hold the room.

“I’m ready for a case,” Malcolm announced from the bed.

“In your dreams, kid,” Gil returned from his chair, opening a plastic container of egg drop soup. A special request for Gil to make because otherwise _hospital broth would make him die of starvation_.

“I’m out - can’t listen to this again,” JT complained, heading toward the door.

“You _could_ tell me a story about _your_ case,” Malcolm suggested.

“And chance you goin’ AWOL?” Gil butt in with a warning glance. “I don’t think so.”

“More about the ice cream man?” Malcolm tried again. Life was less fun in confinement.

“You were not special, Bright - you fit his description,” Gil repeated. On the wall, trespassing where he shouldn’t have been. Ignoring a protest he didn’t hear. Second victim in the past month, it turned out, when Gil finally got the information out of him. Now Malcolm wouldn’t stop asking about it.

“I know what this is,” JT accused, coming back from the door.

Malcolm paused, staring at him.

“Getting a rise out of us.” JT poked the bed.

“Is it working?” A smirk peeked out of the corner of his mouth.

“My nana would swat your ass.” He lightly hit the blanket instead.

“That would hurt a fair amount right now,” Malcolm cautioned, lest he get any ideas.

“So _cut it out_.” He stepped back from the bed. “Gotta be cards around here somewhere. Poker?”

Gil shook his head at the invitation into a new minefield.

“Every time I catch you profiling me, you lose a chip,” JT advised the rules, prepared to head down to the gift shop for cards if he had to.

“That’s not how poker works,” Malcolm protested.

“Oh, I’m in,” Gil changed his mind.

After Malcolm Bright’s fall from the wall, all the men were together again.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
